Page 24 of Tasteful Anarchy and Tangled Auras
He chuckles. “I’ll take care of you.” And his fingers skate down my belly and right to my clit. He circles slowly there, too, taking care to rub at the center each time. Then his fingers dip lower and my hips rock forward again. Another masculine chuckle has me wanting to hide my face. His hand retreats for a moment, and I feel him stroking himself to get some seed. I whine and start to turn over to touch him, but he wraps his other arm around me, pinning me where I am. He gently separates my folds and slips his two fingers inside me and I gasp. Then, with no preamble, he curls them and slowly rocks his large hand back and forth, letting his palm press down on my clit each time.
“That’s right, love. It’s so easy for me to help you.” He keeps playing with me, and I cannot control my hips. I’m bucking and writhing.
“Come in my hand,” he demands in that dominant voice again. And I do. I couldn’t have helped it if I wanted to. I gasp and moan and grab his muscular arm with both of my hands, the flex of my muscles driving my orgasm higher. His rhythm doesn’t falter until all my muscles relax. “Beautiful,” he whispers in my ear. As my breathing evens out, I’m overwhelmed with wanting to pleasure him. But his arms hold me tight, not letting me up.
“But I want—”
He cuts me off. “No. This was for you. Go to sleep,” he demands gruffly. He still has me spooned, and I sigh and let myself pretend he truly meant all those gentle words. I’ll just let myself believe that lie. I need a good night’s sleep, and it’s so comfortable in his arms.
AFTER A FEW DAYS, Irun out of excuses to avoid a blade lesson with Bryn. I’m dressed in plum yoga pants, complete with thigh sheath, and a black tight workout racerback tank top. I walk out of my closet, and his eyes drift up and down my body before he looks away.
My throat tightens. Dammit. Why does it always sting with him? A single look at my hips and large chest and he’s pretending not to see me. Probably imagining a willowy female who is full nymph.
Ugh, where did that thought come from?
Before this return to court, I had no issues with my body. My refusing to play with Court males has been great for my body image. So has the way that other Fae and humans enjoy me exactly as I am. Maybe it’s the fact that Bryn keeps turning me down—or, at least, not doing the dirty with me—that is making me feel inadequate. But he is somehow reawakening my awkward thirties angst.
Oh Goddess. The thirties suck for nymphs. The hormonal melodrama is some next-level shit. On top of that, as a royal Court member, Ireallyhad no control over anything, and I definitely rebelled and acted like a jackass. I was growing into my body and very insecure in it; being surrounded by tall, ethereal nymphs did not help. I still didn’t know who I was as an individual being, as opposed to totally understanding my role as an unwanted, ugly, motherless female in a family of merciless Fae that love to fall back on tradition as an excuse for being shitheads.
It had been utterly soul crushing to have two, gorgeous, full-nymph female cousins close in age in the family. Constantly compared to them. Their “sweet” demeanors and strategizing minds, their lithe bodies and small breasts, their strength in “useful” magic; every single solitary flaw of mine was picked apart by my aunts, usually in front of other court members. I sometimes wonder how it would have been if my mother had still been alive.
I don’t know why Bryn’s reactions to me, to my body, make me feel like I’m on a knife’s edge, but I fucking hate it. I glare at him, though I know he was thrown into this uncomfortable and dangerous situation just as much as me. Shit, probably even more so, given that before this nonsense he had more freedom and privacy. I harrumph. Empathy stinks sometimes.
“Well, Priestess, where shall we practice? There is a secluded corner of the park in Wilsden where I think we could go undisturbed.”
“I’ll just ask for a training room,” I say, confused.
“From your grandmother? Does she know about your blade skill?”
“No and not really. What do we need? Floor mats, swords, mirrors...?”
He pauses. “I suppose if it’s a wish list, I’d add some weight machines and a shower, maybe?”
I close my eyes and imagine it. “Mmkay, got it.” I walk to the wall opposite the library door, place my palm against the stone of the castle, and show her my desires. The wall twitches like it's shaking itself. Bryn jumps forward, knife in hand, but the only thing that happens is a heavy wood door emerges, stone rolling and flowing out of the way. Bryn puts his hand on my arm and enters ahead of me. I roll my eyes but let him.
Narrow, long windows line the ceiling. A ballet bar and mirrors line one wall and mats are on the floor in front of them. There is a rack with sticks and swords and other weapons in an alcove that also holds various gym equipment. Another door is on the far wall.
“Well, shit,” Bryn says.
“Such short memories,” I tease.
Bryn spins to me, a magical grin on his face. “The castle is thesithen?”
“Of course. They didn’t leave her in the homelands.”
“And she listens to you?” His voice is amazed, and it makes me giddy.
I smile. “Obviously. Speaking of, well done, sithen,” I say to the room at large.
“Does she listen to your cousins?” Bryn’s question sounds urgent.
“Ye—” I start, then stop. “I guess I don’t know. I have seen her respond to my aunts and grandmother. Technically, I should ask Grandmother to request this, but I’ve been making changes she won’t notice for decades.”
He seems to contemplate this as he crosses to the far door, probably to make sure nothing big and bad is hiding behind it.
I step onto the mats, barefoot, and go through a few yoga flows to warm up. When Bryn finishes his inspection of the space, I wrap up and turn towards him.
“May I see your blade?” He’s barefoot as well, all lean muscle and hunter vibes.
